


Too Fat, Too Shy and Too Busy for Love

by MistyBeethoven



Series: "Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You With a Story" [17]
Category: To the Bone (2017)
Genre: Attraction, Avoidant Personality Disorder, BBW, Confessions, Doctor/Patient, Eating Disorders, F/M, Farting, Fat Admirer, First Dates, Insecurity, Loss of Virginity, Overweight, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Restaurants, Romantic Comedy Drama, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Sex Talk, Shyness, Slice of Life, Virginity, Weight Issues, Workaholic, fears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven
Summary: Being the patient of the psychiatrist and eating disorder specialist Dr. William Beckham, I find myself having to battle my shyness and attraction to the man. After our Doctor/Patient relationship ends and he asks me out, I find myself further dragged out of my comfort zone. Realizing that Beckham suffers from his own relationship phobias, I soon discover that the best way to help us both overcome our problems is by simply extending a helpful hand.
Relationships: Dr. William Beckham/Me
Series: "Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You With a Story" [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589944
Kudos: 12





	Too Fat, Too Shy and Too Busy for Love

**Author's Note:**

> I have a fondness for Dr. William Beckham. I just think he seemed like a really nice man and Keanu did a good job portraying him.
> 
> Plus I thought he was really cute.
> 
> And he had a nice body.
> 
> I wouldn't have minded him examining mine even if it isn't all that great and I would have been incredibly shy.

" _Why does he have to be so cute?_ "

That is always my first thought when I go to my appointment with Dr. William Beckham.

He is a tall man in his forties or fifties, with dark hair, thoughtful brown eyes and a beard or heavy stubble. I can't make a decision on what to classify it as and flip flop between the two all throughout our sessions. His features look a mixture of Asian and European ancestry but his voice sounds purely North American. It's the sexy type of voice, deep and manly and even when I can't find the strength to look at him, listening to his voice offers some form of comfort. It's a kind voice, honest, and I appreciate that the most.

My second thought is usually: " _What am I doing here?_ "

That one, I guess, can be answered easily enough. I am fat, I have a eating problem, I have AVPD, OCD and a thousand different problems that all add up to the fact that I need to see a psychiatrist who is Dr. William Beckham.

And which leads us back to the question:

" _Why does William Beckham have to be so darn cute?_ "

Today I am asking it quite often because I am looking at him more than usual for our time is almost close to ending and during the many sessions, which we have had, I've been able to overcome some of my shyness to actually let my eyes stay on him longer. Although I still feel like blushing madly everytime he meets my gaze and something passes between us more than what seems usual for our situation. Whenever this happens, I am left wondering what is going through that analytical mind of his.

I've told him so much about myself. That's what I am here for after all. I am supposed to be telling him about myself so we can see where my true problems lie and why I have eating disorders and mental health issues. There is often a comorbidity between the two. He's been having me live at this house with several of his other patients and it has been torture in a way.

I have Avoidant Personality Disorder which means I am shy to the point of actual pain. I don't like talking with other people or being around them for that matter. While some people get an energy from social contact it only drains me and leaves me feeling like I've embarrassed myself. My mind during social situations constantly berates me for what it tells me I am doing wrong. Afterwards, it replays the whole thing in a loop and criticizes what I should have done and said instead.

I like the others at the house but I still know I don't fit in. I rarely ever do. If an invisible mark exists which sets a human being apart I carry it around with me. It's funny. The Scientists did a few tests a few years back and found some people are predestined victims. Maybe that's it. Or maybe I just refuse to adapt in order to be accepted and try to remain myself so I just never fit it.

So I'm glad I'll be leaving soon.

There was always one bright spot, however, one I'll regret leaving behind: seeing William Beckham. He's quiet and kind. I like his company enough to feel comfortable with him which is rare. My stupid brain doesn't bully me as much when we interact and I was gradually able to be more of myself around him. I think he liked being around me also. Whenever he visited the house or took us on a "class trip" we'd just naturally fall in together with each other. His broad body, gentleness and innate intelligence called to something inside of me. I would hang around him instead of the others and he let the shy, quiet fat woman gravitate towards him even as he tried to initiate conversations between me and the others.

He stopped doing that after a while. I think he could tell that I was trying for his sake but it just wasn't working. I didn't share the same interests as my companions, and while they weren't exactly cruel, they weren't particularly inviting either.

Beckham would talk to me then and we discovered that _we_ shared some interests and that the conversation, while not boisterous, was a pleasing occurrence for us both.

This fact didn't go unnoticed either.

"So are you _teacher's_ pet?" Amy, a blonde girl suffering from bulimia, asked one time after the psychiatrist had visited and we talked quietly in the corner for a bit about New Order's "1963" and how Johnny had really killed his wife.

"I..."

"I wouldn't have pegged him for a fat admirer," she commented. Her voice wasn't really mean just kind of shocked. Which, I guess, carried with it its own more polite type of cruelty. "He see you without your clothes?"

I blushed. The Doctor had, of course. It had been a tremendously embarrassing moment for me having to stand in front of a man in only my underwear. Still, William Beckham hadn't seemed particularly disgusted by my large belly and fleshy rolls. It being brought up again brought it all painfully back again, though.

"Did it make him hot? Could you see a bulge or not?"

My blush turned deeper and I wanted to walk away but feared looking rude, knowing I'd see the girl sooner or later in the house even if I fled. "No," I replied, feeling like I was also defending the psychiatrist.

"Here he told everybody he was too married to his work to have a girlfriend," she stated. "I guess, he's like all those other guys who can't fess up to liking them big. Smart dude, though. At least, he chose a job where he can look even if he can't touch."

I really did leave then and ran to my room which was thankfully empty.

I didn't know if William was a fat admirer or not but I didn't like the thought that liking a big woman would disturb him enough to keep silent about it. I wasn't crazy about being so large but at the same time I didn't hate it, only the way it made other people judge and look at me. I had heard about men who _did_ like fat women. I always got a secret joy over it actually: the thought that some men favored roundness over compact little bodies. It offered some hope even if they often attatched the word "fetish" to it.

I wasn't sure what I thought about the term "fat admirer" though and surprisingly I found myself mentioning it during this, my last session, with the both outwardly and inwardly attractive Dr. William Beckham.

"You don't like the word _fat_ being used in it right?" he guesses correctly. "That's the problem."

"Well, I heard it enough when I was a child and teenager," I elaborate. "It was never meant as a compliment. Fat...fatty...all of those. I prefer 'chubby' but the gay men already got first dibs on that."

Beckham looks at me thoughtfully. "Well perhaps using 'fat' is even more flattering. A straight guy isn't cushioning it, if you forgive the word choice. He's facing the fact head on and declaring he's perfectly fine with it."

"He's facing the _fat_ head on, you mean," I say with a small giggle.

"Precisely."

"How have your sexual experiences been, Erin?" he suddenly presses me with a personal question. Seeing my shyness he hastily apologizes. "If you aren't comfortable answering that, I understand. We've just never broached your love life before and I thought it was necessary that we did before the session ends."

I had often thought it odd that the subject had never been brought up. Sex seemed to be at the heart of all matters in the mind of most analysts. Yet I had the distinct impression he was avoiding it altogether with me.

"What sex life?" I stated. "My sister kissed me once when I was playing Princess Leia to her Han Solo when I was about four. A neighborhood boy wanted to do something dirty with me when I was the same age but I can't remember what happened other than my dad being really mad and telling me not to play with the boy ever again. I remember feeling that I'd done something wrong to make him so angry but it never affected the way I view sex. I think about it a lot and hope to have it someday."

"You're a virgin?" Dr. William Beckham looks genuinely shocked.

"Yes," I reply shyly. "I only believe in sex with love and genuine feelings behind it. I need to be attracted to the man first and get to know him...when you're too fat and too shy it gets in the way of that."

"Are you afraid of sex?" he asks, looking down at his notes suddenly, his cheeks suspiciously red.

I think about it. "Well I'm afraid of being nude around a man but not of sex, itself, or the pain of the first time. I'm actually kind of curious about that and what it feels like. Well, actually, I am afraid of one thing..."

"What is that?" he inquires looking up and straight into my eyes.

"I'm afraid I'll fart during it."

He stares at me for a moment and I know he's doubting what he thinks he just heard me say. "Pardon?" he says.

"No 'excuse me' is the proper wording," I correct, folding my arms. "I'm afraid I'll let one rip while I'm making love."

He continues to stare at me. Slowly I see his shoulders start to shake as he starts to laugh. Valiantly he tries to prevent it, bringing a hand to cover his mouth. It is such a rare sight to see the usually reserved psychiatrist lose his seriousness and give in to simple amusement that I can't help but feel happy that I brought him some laughter just by being honest.

So I decide to roll with it, wanting his simple joy to last.

"I mean, unintentional farts are the funniest and most humiliating of things in the whole world. My home school teacher did it once when she was stretching and it nearly killed me having to keep a straight face and pretend it didn't happen. When you're moving around gas is hard to keep contained safely away in between your buttcheeks. What if I'm lying there, my legs spread wide, my thighs jiggling about as he's thrusting into me and we're jostling around together and I can't help myself and one slips out? How's the man not supposed to laugh and traumatize me in the process?"

Beckham looks like he's having enough trouble with it only in theory. I can tell that he's biting down on his thumb, trying to keep from blurting out in a guffaw. The tears in his eyes are a dead give away but I pretend that I don't see them regardless.

Trying to compose himself, he removes his thumb from out of his mouth and fakes a cough. "Look at the bright side...it's always a possibilty it could be silent," he comforts, placing his hand holding the pen onto the clipboard.

"Now there's another worry altogether," I proceed trying to appear innocent and concerned. "What if it's a silent stinker and we're both going at it and I think I've escaped permanent embarrassment only to have his nose start twitching as it suddenly hits him? There are so many different types of horrible flatulent odors to consider...And then he starts to gag and look at me because he's perfectly aware that _he_ didn't do it. Or what if it's loud and smells too? Not only did I spoil the romantic moment with a crude and funny sound but I unleashed a horrible aroma on top of it all!"

That did it. He brings his hand back to his teeth in a heartbeat and bites down forcefully on it. It is not enough though: his body is shaking and a violent laughter practically propels the hand from out of his mouth. He leans over in his chair hysterically laughing and I smile widely at his lowered dark head. When he looks up, he's already forming the words for an apology but he sees my smile and we both join our laughter freely because he knows that I wanted him to.

Although everything I said was true.

I am afraid I will fart during sex.

Changing the discussion, Beckham tries to resume his previous professional reserve. "So, Erin, you now accept the fact that you are an emotional eater. When things are bad you turn to food for comfort but it only adds to some of what is causing your pain: being overweight."

"Yes," I say, wounded by the words as I'll probably always be about my size. But I can accept that too. "I will try to not eat when I am upset but do something else instead."

"You are a problematic case," he quickly adds, "because at the same time you under eat. You have admitted to consuming one meal per day. This has, unfortunately, wrecked havoc with your body's metabolism. When you diet your calorie intake is so low to begin with you cannot reach the required decline in calories needed to see results in any diet plan. Your body has reached a plateau and it seems difficult for you to lose weight now even with exercise."

"I know," I say, looking at my chubby hands resting on my lap and trying not to cry. I did not understand my body well enough and abused it for too long without knowing. Now I have to live with that for the rest of my plump existence. 

"Still being big does not equate being unhealthy. I've been informed that you have been eating all three square meals a day at the house," the Doctor says kindly. "You are trying to get better inside of your mind and that means everything. Besides being big does not mean that you aren't beautiful."

Taken aback, I meet the brown eyes that I now love and which always make me feel at peace. I see sincerity in them and feel as warm all over as a chocolate chip cookie must feel after it has been taken out of the oven. Before somebody eats it that is.

"Well that ends our final session," he announces.

I watch as he puts away his pad and paper, clicks his pen back to its former retracted state and then leans forward in his chair and stares at me in a way that makes me nervous.

"Can I be honest with you?" Dr. Beckham asks seriously.

"I just told you that one of my fears is that I'll fart during sex," I state. "I think I deserve your honesty in return."

I'm terrified by what he is going to tell me now that our professional relationship has been officially terminated:

I'm too fat.

I'm too ugly.

I smell bad.

I'm annoying as Hell.

I'm not expecting what he finally does say.

"I'm attracted to you, Erin."

I never _ever_ thought I would hear those words from him. Not in a million years and if I were the last girl on the planet and he needed to mate with somebody or else he would die. Not even after Amy's insinuations.

"You _are_?" is all that I manage to say.

"I have been since I first met you," he confesses, linking his fingers together. "But our Doctor and Patient relationship prevented me from doing anything about it. That was why I hesitated mentioning your love life until today. I couldn't trust my own feelings not to get in the way. Now that it is over, I would very much like it if you went out with me."

I'm startled to realize that while I was sitting on his couch fighting my feelings for him he was doing the same with me. I don't really know what to say, the constant bully inside of my brain is telling me that anything I do say will mess it all up. I'm so desperately shy still and i feel like I'm failing.

"Unhhh...you uh....you remember that I'm painfully shy? You didn't wipe that from your memory the moment you put your clipboard away?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No. I remember."

I squirm on the couch, feeling myself turning red. I look at my hands in my lap and start to play with my thumbs. "Why do you want to go out with me?"

"Why does anybody?" he asks. "Because I find you cute, you are a nice person and I think we get along very well together."

"Are you a fat admirer?" I ask. 

He smiles wryly. "Let's just say I admire true beauty and individuality wherever I find it, Erin."

I'm about melting right now just like a chocolate chip in the before mentioned cookie. "Okay," I agree to the date before the bully can prevent me.

He grins widely.

"But I have to warn you I won't kiss you until the third date," I warn him.

He raises his brows.

"I heard I'm supposed to wait till then; Harold Hill told me," I inform him, referencing the Music Man himself.

"Okay," he says. "Mexican food it is then."

It takes me a few seconds to understand what he means, Mexican food naturally being associated with high levels of gas, but when I do I laugh and toss his couch's cushion at him playfully. He catches it and smiles at me with so much affection I feel my cursed shyness returning tenfold.

* * *

I'm back at home. William made the date for Friday, stating that his work schedule wouldn't allow for any sooner. I remember Amy's words and am amazed that the psychiatrist would choose me to disrupt his usual routine. I have too much time to figure out what to wear not only for our first date but my own first date _ever_. I choose something halfway between casual and formal; look at it from one angle and its classy yet not too snazzy to be taken as requiring a five star restaurant.

Mexican he said and Mexican I'm taking it as. Probably not Taco Bell even though that would be fine with me.

" _You are so fat_!" the voice inside my damaged brain states on Friday evening as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

"Quit it," I reply. "He's seen me almost naked."

It doesn't know how to retaliate until it returns with, " _He likes them fat_."

"So what if he does," I say looking at my large yet somehow perky ass.

" _You'll mess it up. You'll say the wrong thing and he'll be out of there. He'll finally see how weird and boring you are._ "

This stops me even though weird is hardly ever synonymous with boring. Once I let this make a dent in my confidence the negative thoughts come flooding in. By the time William gets there I am almost back inside of my shell, feeling like this is a mistake. A feeling further strengthened by how fine my date looks in comparison to how I feel. He's dressed in a white dress shirt, black tie and charcoal gray pants.

"You look wonderful," he states and I'm almost positive that he is as shy and self conscious as I am.

"Thank you," I softly reply. "So do you."

No kiss. Harold Hill would be proud.

We're standing on my front porch, both of our thoughts probably going to the knowledge of how much easier it was to talk to each other as Doctor and Patient than Man and Woman and I hear that nagging, pestering voice bring a couple thousand of its friends to join in a chorus of, "See t _his is never going to work: I told you so._ "

* * *

The Mexican restaurant is definitely a few rungs up higher than Taco Bell and I am glad that I dressed accordingly. On the ride there in Dr. Beckham's car, I was told to call him Will and forego the Doctor business. I've caught him looking at my chest, legs and bum a few times but he seems guilt ridden about it, like a boy in school doing something that his mother told him he'd burn in Hell for all of eternity if he ever did. I can't find the words to tell him that I don't mind and am honestly flattered by his longing gaze. In truth, I can't tell him much of anything. My AVPD is in overdrive. Words seem clumsy on my tongue. When faced with my silence, the psychiatrist turns to taking calls about this patient or that instead.

Or making a few of them himself.

As we sit waiting for our meal to arrive, I look up timidly at Will on his phone, successfully avoiding looking at me. Suddenly I realize he is _intentionally_ not glancing in my direction and that he is nervous. His hand resting on the table is trembling. Amy said that the man was married to his work. I had often heard it stated and it suddenly becomes clear that this seemingly confident and assured man hides his own insecurities and problems as much as anybody ever did in the house.

He's been so busy helping us with our own problems so that he won't have to face his own, the largest of which I can hazard a guess at making.

He's as much of an emotional turtle as I am and he's retreating to his shell of work so he doesn't have to leave his comfort zone. If he can sabotage this thing between us then he can just jump into the arms of failure instead of having his heart broken, and becoming wounded, in pain and alone again in the process.

I realize that I have returned selfishly towards my own shell of not talking, only allowing this man I care for to fall into his own emotional trap.

Though it takes all the strength I have, my left hand slowly slides across the table until it finds where his right one is resting. I gently take it in my own, stopping it from shaking; I give it a tender squeeze for comfort, reassurance and a reminder that I am here and ready to offer understanding, patience and support. His eyes suddenly stop staring into space before him and eventually meet my own. There is fear held in those eyes and I can clearly see written in them all of my suspicions proven to be 100% true.

I smile at him, trying to convey that he has nothing to fear: his heart is safe with me.

With another flood of warmth as comforting as home baking, I watch as my date smiles back at me sweetly in gratitude.

"You know what," Will Beckham says into his phone. "Put all of my incoming calls on hold. Tonight I'm busy but not on work."

He turns off his phone and sticks it in his pocket. Afterwards he extends his left hand to take my right one. We gaze at each other in silence from across a cacti embroidered tablecloth, both pairs of our hands now holding the other.

* * *

The meal went surprisingly well after that initial awkwardness. He told me some of his history for a change. He came from a broken home which made him question if love even truly existed. Throwing himself into his work made him able not to have to question it anymore and helping others somehow seemed more noble anyway.

I told him he could still do that and tend to healing his own pain too.

We followed the food and chat up with a film which was okay but nowhere near as good as the novel. When Will asked me to explain the differences between the two and what I disliked, I was shocked at how in his company I could easily describe my feelings.

It was sad when he was walking me to my front door and I realized that the evening was almost over.

"I had a great time," I offered a cliche but very true parting comment.

"So did I," he replied.

Staring at him looking tall and fuzzy and with that usual sweet, weary sadness that clung to him almost perpetually, I proclaimed, "To Hell with Harold Hill," and kissed my former psychiatrist clumsily on his bearded (stubbled?) framed lips.

He returned the kiss with a passion that both instructed me and betrayed that he had been wanting to do nothing more than this all night past tacos, killer clowns and brave children. His big hands went to my equally large ass and I felt him exploring it. I moaned as I moved closer to him, my stomach squishing into his and both of us not really caring.

The kiss over, I pressed my head against his chest. "Do you want to come in?" I asked and we both knew I wasn't just talking about my house.

"Are you sure?" he inquired in shock. "What about the Mexican food?" he gently reminded.

"What do you tell your patients about fear?" I asked, parting from him and looking into his sweet face.

"That you can't run away from them," he replied, his voice thick with a very personal need.

"Can you help me?" I asked and offered him my hand.

"My pleasure," he replied as he took it for the second time that night. 

We walked into my house and towards my awaiting bedroom to face my fear together.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, farting played an integral part to this story. I don't see why the heck not.


End file.
